Page 9 of The Academy
Charley is an entirely different species. Her wardrobe is “preppy”—she wears polos and oxfords, A-line madras skirts, battered boat shoes, collared dresses that would not have been out of place at a 1962 Junior League luncheon. She either wears her hair in two Pippi Longstocking braids or pushes it off her face with a grosgrain headband; she wears horn-rimmed glasses. He can tell just from the expression on her face and the way she carries herself that she knows she doesn’t fit in… and doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck. Rhode isn’t sure that he’s ever met an “old soul” before, but if it means someone who presents as ten to fifteen years older and wiser than her actual age, Charley is the first.
“She doesn’t seem bothered by her isolation, is the thing,” Simone says.
“Then you shouldn’t be bothered by it,” Rhode says. “So, what about you? Do you have any students who stand out?”
Simone tips champagne back in her mouth. Ohhhhhh yes, she does. But she doesn’t want to talk about it.
Simone empties the remainder of the bottle of Pour Deux into her glass. “This stuff ismerde,” she says to Rhode. Yet she flags Jefferson, who is at the other end of the bar talking to a beefy guy covered in tattoos. Does the guy look familiar, or is Rhode imagining things?
“Do you have another bottle of this?” Simone asks.
Jefferson chuckles. He’s either mellowing as the night wears on or succumbing to Simone’s charms. “There’s a whole damn case from an engagement party that was canceled during the pandemic. I’ll give you the next bottle for free.”
Simone raises triumphant fists over her head. Rhode can’t help noticing as her vintage Montreal Expos T-shirt pulls free from the top of her jeans, exposing a strip of flesh at her waist.
Rhode peers down the bar, sees the guy with the tattoos checking out Simone as well, and feels a surge of protectiveness that verges on the territorial. Simone is the only woman in the place—and tonight, she’s with him.
The guy with the tattoos at the end of the bar is Harrison “Haz” Flanders, Tiffin’s chef. Haz recognizes the man and woman drinking champagne as Tiffin faculty, though he doesn’t know their names, and he figures they won’t recognize him out of his white jacket.
Harrison arrived at Tiffin two years ago—and he has two years to go until he’s reinstated as head chef at the Dewberry Club on East Seventy-Third Street.
We need time for the scandal to fade,Jesse Eastman told Haz.In the meantime, I have another gig for you.
Haz was forced to take a “leave of absence” from the Dewberry Club because he’d been caught using club funds—money allocated to Haz’s budget for the ladies’ luncheons and dinner dances—to pay off his gambling debts.
Big East was the Dewberry board member who dealt with HR issues, and while he could have easily fired Haz on the spot, he had a different idea. Big East was sending his son to a boarding school in northwest Massachusetts, and it just so happened the school badly needed a chef. The phrase “northwest Massachusetts” was only slightly more palatable to Haz than “boarding school.” Haz was being shipped off to the middle of bucolic fucking nowhere to work in acafeteria?
Haz almost said no, but he feared that if he turned Big East down, the Club would press charges. At the very least, Haz would be blackballed across the five boroughs and would end up overseeing banquets at a Marriott somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike.
And so, to Tiffin he came, but his salary is less than half of what he made at Balthazar his first year out of the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park.
When he complained about the pay, Big East said,You have free housing and free food. Your salary will cover gas and beer. What else do you need?
Haz needs a break. He’s suffered a string of betting losses that have caused him to max out two credit cards. He used to be a regular at Harrah’s in Atlantic City, playing poker and blackjack, but then he decided to save himself the trip and downloaded the FanDuel and DraftKings apps and started betting on sports. He once laid down five grand on a second-division soccer game in Brazil when he knew nothing about either of the teams—and he won big. He needs another score like that so he can pay off his cards and get ahead enough to put a down payment on a new truck. That’s all he wants. After that, he’ll stop gambling for good.
Paltry paycheck aside, Haz likes his job at Tiffin. He takes great satisfaction in elevating “school food.” The moment Chef replaced the white chunks of iceberg in the salad bar with tender organic butter lettuce and crisp baby romaine, he became a hero. Audre Robinson, the Head of School, invites him out to the dining room every Sunday after brunch service to accept a standing ovation. Burger Night has become legendary, and so have the wood-fired pizzas he serves for lunch every Friday. He’s learned the kids’ tastes, their preferences. Cinnamon Peters loved his eggs Florentine; it breaks Haz’s heart just thinking about it.
Haz nurses his Jim Beam as he eavesdrops on the two teachers. The dude, he learns, is also a transplant from New York City; he was some kind of writer but now teaches English. The chick is from Montreal; she teaches history. She’s young—closer in age to the students than to either Haz or the English teacher—and at the moment, she’s also very drunk. Haz watches her finish the second bottle of sparkling wine by herself. She’s talking too loudly, slurring her words. “I want the kids to respect me, but I also want them to like me. I know it’s wrong, but I want to be their favorite.”
The dude says, “I think we should probably be heading back.”
The chick throws her arm around his neck, leans into him, and says, “Let’s have one more bottle, but you have to drink some this time. It’s called ‘Pour Deux,’ which means ‘For…’”
“Not a good idea,” the dude says. He sets three twenties on the bar, then stands. The chick lists so far left in her seat, Haz fears she’s going to topple over. “Whoa, okay, Simone, upsy-daisy.” The dude helps Simone get up, but the weight of her throws him off-balance. He’s not a big guy, and so Haz moves in for the assist.
He strides over, saying, “Need help getting her out to the car?”
The dude glances up—“No, thanks, man. I got it”—but Simone’s knees buckle, and it’s obvious he hasn’t got it. Haz props Simone up on one side while the English teacher holds her up on theother. Her feet slip out from under her like she’s on skates, but somehow they make it out to the parking lot, where a dinged-up red RAV4 is the only vehicle other than Haz’s piece-of-shit Ford Ranger.
“This you?” Haz asks.
“Hers. But I’m driving, obviously.”
Haz leads Simone to the passenger side and gets her buckled in. Her head drops forward like a wilting flower.
When Haz closes the door, he regards the English teacher over the top of the car. “I’m Harrison, the chef from school.”
“That’swhy you look familiar!” The English teacher’s expression brightens, and he comes around to pump Haz’s hand. “I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity right now. My name is Rhode, as in Rhode Island. Rhode Rivera. Man, that chicken with the lemon pan sauce…”
